


Crosshair

by fleet_of_red



Series: The Simple Act of Saving You [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References Pedophilia, Young Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleet_of_red/pseuds/fleet_of_red
Summary: During a routine assassination, Slade observes a boy through his rifle scope, unaware of what he will eventually become.Desperate to support himself and his addict mother, a young Jason finds himself accepting a risky offer too tempting to refuse.They do not cross paths, but the kid leaves an impression nonetheless.





	Crosshair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SladeRobinWeek 2018 event, with the prompt: Rescue
> 
> Link to fanart (contains spoiler) in author notes below.

  
The light trembles from the body lying next to him stirs Jason from his troubled sleep. His mother has an arm--covered in needle marks-- draped around him as she slept. He can easily delude himself into thinking that it’s a tender embrace, but he knows better.  
  
They haven’t been able to make their payments, and with both power and heat shut off, this gesture of intimacy is nothing more than a subconscious desire for bodily warmth.  
  
The only source of light in their dusty studio apartment comes from the neon signs outside their windows, casting hues of pink and yellow into the musty room.  
  
Jason gently shifts from under his mother’s arm and off the single mattress they share. She murmurs once but doesn’t wake. It’s November, and the sun is already below the horizon. He shakes off the residual cobwebs of sleep.  
  
It’s time to get to work.  
  
“I’ll be back soon, mom,” he whispers as he pulls the thin blanket back over his mother’s sleeping form.  
  
He was only eight when his father failed to return home one night. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence as he and his mother have gone days, even weeks, without seeing the man. It wasn’t until they overheard one of their neighbors gossipping to her friend about seeing that no-good-Willis-Todd on the news, that they even bothered to check.  
  
Willis was one of the many low-level henchmen arrested during an arms deal associated with Oswald Cobblepot. The DA, not being able to actually pin anything on the magnate, instead ensured that his hired goons won’t see the light of day again. _Justice served_ , the news headline reported that day.  
  
Catherine Todd’s addictions took a swine dive after that.  
  
Jason hasn’t visited his father in prison. Not once.  
  
That was also the year the local government slashed funding for assistance to families _like his_ , so Jason soon found himself dropping out of school to try and keep him and his mother afloat.  
  
He started out panhandling at first, but Gotham doesn’t care that another scrawny street rat was added to its ranks. Tired of begging only to be ignored like another piece of trash, Jason decided early on that he’s not going to just lie there and fade away like so many in this godforsaken city; no, he’s going to get in Gotham’s fucking face and _take_.  
  
His repertoire soon expanded to pick-pocketing and stealing anything that’s not bolted down.  
  
Over the years, he has become quite the expert. Petty criminals in the Narrows even came to call him the “Lockpick kid”. Jason’s quite proud of that one. And of course, once in a while, he even resorts to mugging when the prey is particularly easy.    
  
Just last month, he mugged a family leaving the back exit of a local theater. A boy around Jason’s age walked between his parents, linking their hands with his.  
  
They dressed like they were ready to stroll down the red carpet; the mother even wore a pearl necklace, for chrissakes! They didn’t belong in this part of the city; _his_ part of the city. Jason stalked them for two blocks before making his move. He stepped out and blocked their only escape out of a filthy alley; his red hoodie pulled down, obscuring his face in the shadow.  
  
“Give me your wallet, and no one gets hurt!” he barked, waving his switchblade right up in their faces for good measure.  
  
The father had a protective arm in front of his wife and son and complied immediately. Like he thought, easy prey. The boy actually _whimpered_ behind his mother, gripping her dress.  
  
Jason sneered at the sight of that soft, untested dough of a boy who’s probably groomed for the upper echelon of Gotham and wasn’t sure if he’s ever hated anyone as much. Still, the money from that encounter kept food on the table for a while.  
  
Tonight, however, his hunting ground is in the junction of a few popular dive bars and clubs. At the edge of the Narrows, it’s been gentrified to have just enough perception of danger for rich Gothamites seeking a thrill on Friday night. The drunken masses will barely notice a kid with light fingers bumping into them while they sway between the various drinking holes.  
  
Jason already has a few potential targets picked out when a black limousine rolls up to a still right next to him. A tinted window rolls down with a squeak, and a finger beckons him over.  
  
“The fuck you want?” he bristles, uncomfortable with the sudden attention.  
  
“How old are you, kid?” asks the shadow of a man obscured by the dim interior.  
  
“What’s it to you?”  
  
The man leans closer into the artificial lights outside and Jason can make out a sizable man with thinning hair dressed in a business suit. “How would you like to make some extra cash?” he grins with an oily smile.  
  
Jason’s every instinct tells him to walk away. Fast. The man senses the boy’s apprehension and reveals a roll of fifty-dollar bills from his coat pocket. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”  
  
Holy shit, that’s a lot of money. Jason locks his jaw and fails to stop himself from staring at the cash with raw hunger in his eyes. He swallows once and repeats, “I asked you, ‘what the fuck do you want?’”  
  
“Just want some company,” the man flicks the hand holding the cash. “C’mon, let’s go for a ride.”  
  
The limo door opens and Jason can see two men with grim, stoic faces sitting across from the businessman. From the way they carry themselves, they’re not trying very hard to conceal the pistols they carry under their jackets. Bodyguards.  
  
This is a really _really_ stupid idea, he grimaces, but he cannot look away from that roll of cash just out of arm’s reach.  
  
That’s gotta be close to a thousand? Maybe more? With that much money, he could turn the power and heat back on and get mom something nutritious to eat for once. Oh, and maybe even get a turkey for a _proper_ Thanksgiving dinner! Even now, he can picture her face, sparkling with happiness, as she checks the temperature of the bird in the oven.    
  
He lets out the shaky breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “...Okay.”  
  
Jason looks around at the sea of people passing around him, none of whom returned as much as a glance. He then braces a hand on the car and climbs in.  
  
The door shuts behind him in a slam that shakes him to his core.  
  
\---------------  
  
Gotham is a painted whore, Slade Wilson thinks, as he leans against a wet concrete wall and waits for his mark to make a move. All the bright colors and sounds cannot cover up the perpetual stench of despair and corruption that has long seeped into the foundations of this city.  
  
Not only do various mob families influence every level of the government, but there’s also a circus of eccentric characters in masks and capes who treat Gotham like their own personal playground.  
  
Sure, he might wear a mask and armor while carrying out contracts as Deathstroke, but he’s not like one of them wackjobs. Not really.  
  
This was supposed to be an easy job.  
  
Instructions were sent to a secure drop-off site along with a disposable phone. All the information checked out. The target, Marc Rochester, isn’t a metahuman or even a fighter. Just a businessman who got too greedy and decided to sell sensitive company code to the highest bidder on the black market.  
  
Too bad his former colleagues got wind of it beforehand and modified the information.  
  
The only wrench in this mission is the timeline. Slade has to wait until the sale of the falsified code has been confirmed, and only then can Rochester be killed.  
  
His employer will message him via the disposable phone for confirmation. The whole process, unfortunately, could take hours or days, so Slade has been trailing his target at a distance.  
  
The boredom of watching a businessman go through his day is an acceptable trade-off for the payment...that is until Rochester hires two bodyguards and takes an impromptu trip to the nearby city of Gotham.  
  
From the looks of it, the bodyguards are ex-military, and nothing Slade couldn’t handle. But he dislikes spending time in Gotham unless he absolutely has to. Last time he was here, he drew the attention of the local flying rodent and his colorful pet bird. It ended in a draw, but had cost him weeks in recuperation time.  
  
Slade eyes the limo from a safe distance. It had begun to drizzle, but that didn’t dampen the mood of Gothamites crowding the streets. He unpockets the disposable phone and sighs as the instruction to terminate the target still hasn’t come through. He knows it will vibrate when it receives the message, but he still checks it mindlessly as the cold rain runs down his spine.    
  
The limo cruises down street after street through a particular seedy side of the entertainment district until it sets its sight on a target: a kid.  
  
Well, Slade thinks with disdain, that wasn’t included in the target profile, but it does explain why the man traveled to Gotham. Guess he doesn’t shit where he eats. But it matters very little. Rochester is a dead man walking, and his judgement will come swiftly enough.  
  
The traffic is slow enough that Slade can follow them from up on rooftops until the limo slows and drops the occupants off at a hotel.  
  
It’s not a high-end establishment, but people in this part of the town understand discretion. They certainly don’t ask questions, especially to richly dressed businessman accompanied by armed guards, even as he leads an unkempt kid to a private suite.  
  
The bug he had placed in Rochester’s shoe earlier feeds him the audio information he needs through one earbud. Room 724. There are plenty of buildings around that offers him a direct vantage point into the room in question and he settles for the best one.  
  
“Time to get comfortable,” he thinks as he cracks his neck and begins setting up his sniper rifle.  
  
Minutes later, the bedroom door opens and lights flicker to life. The businessman steps through the door followed by the boy a few paces behind him.  
  
“Wait outside, and do not disturb,” Rochester orders his guards and without waiting for a confirmation, shuts the door in their faces.  
  
Through the rifle scope, Slade can see the kid clearly for the first time.  
  
There is grime on his oversized red hoodie while his faded jeans are just short enough to reveal bare ankles. The boy shakes water droplets from his messy mop of dark hair as he pulls back his hoodie. He looks like a ten-year-old, or possibility a malnourished twelve.  
  
Around Rose’s age, Slade thinks, as the corners of his mouth turn down.  
  
That said, there was anything but childlike in the boy’s gaze as his eyes survey his new environment.  
  
Slade checks the phone again, and the ‘0 message’ text stares back at him. He tuts once and pockets it again.  
  
He’s seen the worst humanity has to offer, but there’s no need to observe what comes after this, even if the kid doesn’t look like he’s being held against his will. Deathstroke’s target is living on borrowed time, and he won’t be able to leave that room without alerting him, scope or no scope.  
  
Just as he was about to lower the rifle, he notices the boy flipping the additional bar on the door latch, locking it. “Interesting”, he thinks with a raised brow and continues to observe.  
  
Rochester takes off his suit jacket and discards it on the bed. “Why don’t you come over here and make yourself comfortable,” he prompts the kid while another hand loosens his tie.  
  
The boy ignores the man and walks past him to a large decorative vase. He lifts it with both hands and inspects it thoughtfully before setting it down again with a soft ‘clunk’.  
  
Rochester raises his voice. “Hey, you better not steal anything, I already said I’d pay you.” Then he mutters something about trashy delinquent punks under his breath. The boy strolls to the edge of the room and opens the balcony door.  
  
“Relax, I’m just looking around. After all,” the boy smiles without warmth, “it’s not every day someone _like me_ gets to check out this kind of view.”  
  
The boy shouldn’t be able to see him on the dim rooftop at this distance, but Slade presses himself closer to the ground and stays still as the kid continues to study the view from the balcony. After a moment, he seems to find what he was looking for and steps back inside with a look of grim determination.  
  
Rochester, impatient now, walks over and grabs him by the shoulder. The kid visibly twitches at the touch. “Alright, enough playing!” the man demands and reaches for his face.  
  
The kid dodges with a quick step back and draws out a switchblade.  
  
“Step back, you fucker,” he hisses with a low growl. “You wanted some fun, right? Well, we’re having plenty of fun now! Hand me the rest of the money!”  
  
The man glances at the door and the kid makes a sharp jabbing motion with the blade and warns, “If you yell for them, I swear I will gut you like a fish!”  
  
Slade chuckles despite himself as he listens to the kid threaten the man with more colorful language through his earpiece. He didn’t expect the kid to turn the table around. Neither did the mark, apparently.  
  
The businessman raises his hands, face red with rage and embarrassment at being mugged by knifepoint by the kid he brought back to the hotel. “Fine, fine! It’s in my jacket. Let me go get it!” He curses as he makes his way to the suit jacket.  
  
“No,” the kid commands with a gesture of his switchblade. “You back the hell up and don’t move!” The man glares at him while the boy walks over to the bed, maintaining eye contact with him the entire time, blade between them.  
  
He reaches down for the jacket with his empty hand and searches the pockets one by one. They come up empty.  
  
Rochester dashes towards him and crashes them both into the ground. The knife flies from the kid’s grip and lands several feet away. The kid is dazed by the fall, breath knocked out of him, and before he can get back up, the man pushes him down and straddle over him with his full weight.  
  
“Boss, everything okay?” One of the guards’ faint voice comes through the door.  
  
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Rochester hollers back. “Having plenty of fun now!”  
  
“Shit,” Slade mutters. He follows the movements in the room intently as the kid struggles in earnest, twisting and trying in vain to get his knees up between him and the heavy man above him.  
  
Rochester reaches down to grab his hair, but the kid takes the opportunity to bite down on a finger.  
  
“You rabid little bitch!” the man yells in pain and backhands the kid across the face. A trickle of blood runs down his split lip, but the kid uses the slight shift in their position to roll out from underneath him.  
  
He looks wildly around the room and locates his knife but Rochester grabs him by an ankle, yanking him back.  
  
The kid falls to the ground with a yelp of pain but kicks back with his free leg, _hard_ , and unbalances the man. He turns and reaches for his knife again only to brush the handle with the tip of his fingers.  
  
The man grabs both ankles now and starts dragging him back, but the kid manages to extend his reach at the last second and grabs the switchblade. He twists around and stabs the man in the thigh.  
  
Slade raises a brow, impressed the kid lasted this long against a man more than quadruple his size and weight, but shakes his head. “Should’ve gone for the throat, kid,” he murmurs.  
  
The businessman looks down at the switchblade sticking out of his thigh in disbelief and yanks it out with a howl. Rage blinds him and he slashes down with the knife, screaming “You are going to _beg_ for death before I’m done with you, you little shit!”  
  
The boy leaps back just in time for the blade to only catch the sleeve of his sweater, slicing a long line through the red fabric. He grabs the vase from earlier and throws it at the man.  
  
It shatters over him, cutting his face with the shards, but that seems to only enrage him further as he continues to advance, waving the knife.  
  
The boy steps back until his back hits the wall. Despite shaking, he grits his teeth and spits out, “C’mon then, I’m not afraid of you!”  
  
Rochester raises his arm to bring the knife down when a bullet bursts through the side of his temple. He slumps forward onto his knees and collapses onto the ground, blood slowly soaking into the carpet.  
  
Slade didn’t know he was going to shoot until the moment he felt the knowing vibration of the phone in his jacket giving him the go ahead. His finger squeezed the trigger, just in time.  
  
The kid stares at the dead man by his feet, then turns to glare out the window in the direction the shot came from and locks his eyes with Slade.  
  
No. No, he’s too far for the kid to see him, but Slade twitches once like he’s been spotted.  
  
A scowl spreads on the kid’s face as he stares in Slade’s direction, daring the unknown marksman to make the next move. Challenging him.  
  
For a wild second, Slade considers shooting the kid. Make sure there are no loose ends. With the kind of life that led the boy to this moment, perhaps a quick death will be a mercy.  
  
But no, the kid didn’t see him, doesn’t know anything that could be traced back to him. Slade removes his finger from the trigger.  
  
A moment passes, and the kid actually _scoffs_ , like he called some sort of bluff--won a staredown against an invisible threat.  
  
He kneels over, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood, and retrieves his switchblade from the dead man’s hand. The guards realize something’s wrong and starts knocking on the door. When they didn’t get an answer, they start to slam against it. The locks won’t hold for long.  
  
“What the fuck are you doing, kid? Time to get out,” Slade hisses under his breath.  
  
The kid finally finds what he was looking for on the body, and shoves a roll of cash into his pocket and sprints for the balcony.  
  
The two bodyguards bursts through the door with guns drawn. Slade greets them with a bullet each through the head.  
  
The boy has now decided that he’s not a target, and doesn’t even look back as the two guards drop dead to the ground behind him. He flips over to the other side of the balcony guardrail and lets out a deep breath before jumping towards the escape route he planned earlier.  
  
He softens his fall with a roll as he crashes onto the small platform on the side of the building next to the hotel. After one last glance at Slade, he pulls his hood up and slides down the ladder of a fire escape.  
  
Slade watches the kid vanish down the dark alleys of Gotham where he came from and gets ready to disappear himself. He takes out the phone to break it, making it untraceable, when he notices it. He never received any message at all.  
  
Did he not feel the vibration, after all? The assassin second guesses himself. He’s positive he received the message as he watched the kid get cornered through his scope. He could have verified the message before taking the shot. But he didn’t.  
  
Slade glances back at the dark alley below and lets out a dry laugh and resumes to pack up his rifle.    
  
\---  
  
Almost home.  
  
The wind deafening to his ears as Jason dashes through the familiar darkness without a backward glance. He can feel tears threatening to roll down his face, but he wipes it away with his sleeve. He checks that the roll of cash is secure in his pocket and laughs instead.  
  
Jason climbs over a chain-linked fence and flips over to the other side to take a shortcut through a garage. If I stop, my heart and legs will give out, he thinks. So he doesn’t.  
  
“Mom!” he yells as he bursts through the door of their dingy apartment. He trips over a shoe and falls down, laughing, holding the cash to his chest. “Mom! Mom, get up! You gotta see this!”  
  
He pushes himself back onto his knees and crawls towards the mattress haphazardly place on the floor. “Mom?”  
  
Blank eyes stare back into nothing. And without even touching her cold skin, he knew she was gone.  
  
“Mom…”  
  
His body moves for him as he curls up onto the bed with her, nestling his back against her chest. “I’m home, mom,” he whispers again, this time not expecting an answer.  
  
He pulls her stiff arm over his shoulder and tries to warm himself with her embrace. The roll of cash on the ground, forgotten.  
  
\---  
  
  
Years later, Slade Wilson meets a young man partial to the color red, who sneers with too much teeth, and whose glare sparkles with an unspoken challenge. And this time, this time, Slade decides to introduce himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fleet_red) and [Tumblr](https://fleet-of-red.tumblr.com/)


End file.
